Vows
by rosa lunae
Summary: After the book, Clarice is captured. Dr. Lecter is not. The FBI begins to use deplorable methods of interrogation, and Clarice struggles to remain loyal through the torture. Will she survive?


**Hannibal**

Author's note: I own no aspect of the movies or books related to Dr. Hannibal Lecter or Clarice Starling or their crew. They belong to Thomas Harris, publishers, and movie-makers. But the plot they find themselves is of my own original making. I am also a novice in the Hannibal fanfiction realm, but I am familiar with the movie and fairly familiar with the book. Please forgive any discrepancies within this story conflicting with the original book and movie. And my final request, please enjoy!

-rosa lunae

Vows

When the _National Tattler_ announced in bold, gaudy print **MRS. HANNIBAL CAUGHT; DR. LECTER STILL LOOSE**, the world had to pause and remember who they were. Five years had passed since their disappearance following the gruesome murder of Paul Krendler, and save that event, no murder matching distinctive style of Dr. Lecter or the cold accuracy characteristic of Ex-Agent Starling had surfaced. And so, when the tabloid reported that the former FBI Agent had in fact married Hannibal Lecter, a legend almost forgotten, it didn't incite the reaction it intended.

Instead of a global rage of triumph and call for her blood, Clarice Lecter's story was received with pity and distorted romantic fascination by the public. Especially when an anonymous source submitted footage of her capture to the night news. When the public witnessed multiple FBI agents assaulting an unarmed, elegantly dressed woman who was not resisting their attempt to arrest her, the call for blood was on the Bureau and not their captive.

However, apprehension ran rampant in both the FBI and the public mind as Dr. Hannibal Lecter remained undetected. Thus, the illustrious Bureau unleashed its frustration and shame on the woman they viewed as a traitor—Ex-Special Agent Clarice Starling Lecter.

Expert interrogators, psychiatrists, and FBI profilers were summoned from around the States to inquire of her. But again, and again, they failed. Sometimes Clarice Starling would remain utterly silent. Sometimes she engaged her interrogators in an upbeat, casual conversation until they felt so comfortable talking with her that they were frightened away. Sometimes, she would simply answer every question with another question until the questioners would become frustrated and leave.

But forensic psychiatrists could not classify her as insane. In fact, all reported that she was a perfectly sane, intelligent, charming, poised woman capable of remorse, love, anger, and humor. Her West-Virginian accent was replaced with a smooth, articulate speech, fringed with Italian inflection. In fact, her former country drawl only reappeared in instances of extreme anger, which no one had been able to incite since her capture from an elegant opera in Buenos Aires.

But despite all of their prodding, she could not be prevailed upon to disclose the location of her husband, or any other detail about him for that matter, save the fact that, yes, they were married.

And so, as can only be expected, the FBI grew restless, and resorted to other methods.

In an abandoned FBI safe-house in Wyoming, interrogation tactics formerly declared deplorable by the Bureau, were utilized on one of their own.

Clarice was put in solitary confinement. For days, she was left in a room with a cot, lavatory, and sink. No window, no company. She was given only water, and the occasional piece of bread. But never once did she complain, beg, make a request, or do anything remotely suspicious. She did not talk to herself, or have any kind of episode. During the day she amused herself by exercising, stretching, meditating, singing softly, or dozing. She even removed the mattress and dissembled the cot so she could use the metal bars of the cot as weights in her daily regimen.

But, though she remained hydrated, the lack of sufficient food, was evident in her endeavors. She became weaker and frailer with each passing day. But still, she never gave in.

This method was not working. The Agents attending her switched to a different method. They began to try and renew her health by giving her sufficient meals. She regained her strength, but save a remark of approval on the improved cuisine, she still did not favorably answer their questions.

So, after she had regained some of her strength, the FBI dropped another level. They began to torture her.

"Where is Dr. Lecter?" They would ask of the bound Clarice Lecter.

"I should like to know myself; I miss him, and it seems you do as well," she would reply. Then, they would strike her. A slap in the face. Punch in the eye or jaw. A savage kick to her ribs, or a slow, ruthless twist of her ankle.

But no matter how she shrieked or cried or yelled or screamed or grunted or hissed in pain, she never cried any words. No plea for help, no shout of her husbands name, no curse on their heads. Nothing.

But the knowing gleam in her eyes that no camera could capture and no eye could forget told them, without a doubt, that they were making a very costly mistake. And her torturers found that when they closed their eyes to try and sleep, her bruised face, polite smile, and glowing eyes were there.

Finally, in an act of never before seen desperation, the FBI director anonymously ordered their final attempt to open her mouth, out of fear of disgrace and a feral need to know where Lecter was.

So, an Agent Drummond, a man she was now familiar with, arrogantly showed her a poorly forged court order for drug intervention.

Completely complacent, Clarice noted, "No court would sanction this, especially since you misspelled six different words, used white-out, and a low-toner Xerox machine. But if you feel the need to dig your own grave a little deeper, please feel free. I am pleased to see that the FBI has not lost its perseverance." Her words were slightly slurred from fever; some of her poorly tended wounds had become infected. In fact, her feet were not even bothered with binds because one ankle was broken.

Drummond scowled, but seemed satisfied to pull out a filled syringe, complete with gleaming needle. But it elicited no reaction to his frustration.

"Starling—," he refused to call her Mrs. Lecter, despite her several polite requests, "you took a vow to serve the American people. How are you doing that by protecting a wanted serial killer?"

Clarice considered her answer carefully, as she realized it would probably the last coherent one she would be allowed to give.

"I did take that oath, Special Agent Drummond. And I was faithful to it for nearly 11 years. My reputation was ruined by a drug-bust that went wrong because of a jealous officer's idiotic caprice. And I slowly realized that despite my dedication to the job for over a decade, the job was not and never was dedicated to me. And, as you have proven, never will be. But I will remind you that I am no longer employed by the FBI, and technically no longer accountable to that oath. But, in my own way, I am. I took an oath never to betray, always to protect. And hopefully, I can demonstrate the highest degree of loyalty and dedication by protecting the most important person in my life, whether you understand or not. If you find it necessary to draw my last breath in this very building, so be it, but you will never succeed in convincing me to betray him. But your resolve is commendable, however misguided. So, please, continue now with your illegitimate injection, if you must."

Drummond was stunned into silence. This woman was able to compliment and shame him, and infuriate and amaze him all in one serene soliloquy. But, his director's orders were clear, and unlike Starling, his mind was still captive to the Bureau. So, despite his hands' newfound tremble, he stood, and without a word, plunged the syringe into her bruised upper arm, and watched as her striking eyes rolled into the back of her head, and her body went limp against the rope pinning her to the chair.

Grimly, Drummond retrieved a tape recorder from his pocket, pressed record, and placed it on the table in front of Mrs. Lecter. In less than a minute, she began to jerk erratically in her stupor. Soon, she began to mumble incoherently, sightless eyes darting around the room.

"Clarice. Clarice. Can you hear me?" He asked loudly, despite his obvious disgust with himself.

The drug was reacting with already weak and sick condition. Sweat already rolled in streams down her sallow skin.

"Yes," she mumbled, indistinctly. Blisters on her bare arms were being aggravated by her violent shudders against the ropes. Her hair was greasy and tousled, her face bruised, her body broken, but she was still in her elegant hunter green gown, and despite the dress's and her own haggard appearance, she was beautiful, alone, terrified, and helpless but brave until the end.

Drummond hated himself.

"Do you know a man named Dr. Hannibal Lecter?"

A delirious, yet soft smile twisted her face as her struggles increased in fervor. "_Il mio amore_…" she murmured. She saw things that he never would.

"Where did you live before you were caught?"

"_Rimarrò forte. Rimarrò sempre forte."_

Agitated, Drummond leaned forward. "Speak in English, Clarice. Where did you live before were caught?"

"With my husband."

Despite his frustration and fear for himself, Agent Drummond couldn't help but be amazed at this woman's will power. But he didn't have time to be impressed. Clarice was going into violent seizures, and blood from the corner of her mouth.

"Where is Doctor Lecter, Clarice!" he yelled, grabbing her thrashing shoulders to keep her from further harming herself.

"_Sta venendo!"_ she shrieked joyously as her chair was overturned in her convulsions.

"Where is he, Clarice! Where is Lecter! Tell me!" He kicked at the legs of her chair, sending her harder into the floor.

"_Oh, la mia verita! Sta venendo!" _

"What are you saying, Clarice!" He screamed desperately, his arm raised to strike her convulsing form.

"I believe she said, 'He is coming.'"

Instant understanding and terror filled Agent Drumming. The iron arm that seized his torso and the blade that sliced his throat were faster even than his own realization. He crumpled to the floor, his last thoughts on how he cheated in his Italian all his years in college.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter jumped over Drummond's body, and in one smooth motion, he sliced the ropes holding Clarice, and gathered her broken body gently into his arms. He flinched at the fire in her skin, and the MD in him was alarmed at her condition. Her wild eyes kept darting, but as his arms came around her, her seizures began to slowly subside.

"_Qui sono, il mi caro. Qui sono._"

For the first time since she had been captured, Clarice S. Lecter allowed herself to cry. And as her bruised arms trembled and looped around his neck with utter trust, Dr. Hannibal Lecter finally allowed himself to smile.

_**Conclusione**_

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Rough Italian Translations

_Il mio amore_…--My love.

_Rimarrò forte. Rimarrò sempre forte—_I will remain strong. I will always remain strong.

_Sta venendo—_He is coming.

_Oh, la mia verita!—_Oh my truth!

_Qui son, il me caro. Qui sono._—I am here, my dear. I am here.

**Hope you enjoyed. Please review. **

-rosa lunae


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